The Way of Things
by Demented Inu
Summary: Everything died. It was the way of things. HarryRon, past RonHermione.


It had been almost two weeks before the news caught up with him.

At first, he thought it was a joke. A prank, perhaps, somebody trying to fuck with his head. They had been through so much, everything, not a minute passing that wasn't spent together in those final years.

But Harry's face was serious, voice deadpan as the news spilled from his lips. Ron had closed his eyes, had hit his head against the wall, sure he hadn't heard correctly.

She couldn't be gone. Not Hermione.

It was the minute he reached the Burrow that it happened. Suddenly, all his energy was gone, all the adrenaline from before turned into grief and tiredness. That first night, all he could do was sleep. He dreamed of blood and fire and chocolate and brown eyes, his mind cobbling together bits and pieces of fragmented memory.

When he woke, Harry was standing beside his bed, green eyes glittering in the light.

"What time is it?" Ron asked, not really wanting to hear the answer but desperate to hear someone talk.

Harry blinked sadly. "Four-thirty. You slept all afternoon."

Ron closed his eyes and swallowed and nodded, his limbs too tired to help him sit upright in the bed. He felt numb, somehow, the tips of his fingers tingling.

"Do you feel okay?" Harry asked. His voice sounded oddly like a stranger's in the tiny bedroom, loose, almost, empty of any real emotion other than pity.

Ron opened his eyes again. "Yeah," he replied untruthfully. The feeling of emptiness settled in his chest, making him cold. He hated it. "I'm fine."

Harry looked at him suspiciously for a moment, a million different emotions flickering across his face. "All right," he said finally, and then he hesitantly began to leave. Ron coughed weakly when he heard the door click shut and relaxed.

It was raining, he thought simply, and he listened to the pattern the drops were making as they beat against the roof, the window, tumbling clumsily down from the gray skies. Rain. Perfect to match his mood: empty, hollow, useless.

There was a bitter taste at the back of his throat, and he realized that he couldn't remember the last time he had had any water. Would it be enough to just open the window and catch the raindrops on his tongue? Dirty. Bacteria. Germs. Hermione would tell him off in the past, as he'd run around the Quidditch Pitch like an overexcited puppy, allowing the water to trickle down his throat.

Would it be enough?

No, he decided, and he closed his tired eyes once more.

It would never be enough.

***

Dawn.

It was breaking over the horizon now, and Ron didn't lift a finger or even raise his head for a better look. His eyes were open, at least, and he watched intently as the sunlight hi the floor in a stream of gold. Just a beam of light, peeking through the blinds at him.

The sun kept rising beyond the hills, slowly, and he payed close attention as that little beam of sunlight crept across the floor of his bedroom. Hermione loved sunrise. She loved the sun in general, as long as it kept its light away from her precious books.

Time seemed to crawl by. The light inched its way across the expanse of carpet as the minutes dragged on.

He heard the door open and knew it was Harry without looking up. Harry: innocent, flawed, dark, warm, cold. So many descriptions for such a fragile creature. Such a rugged person.

"Hey," Harry said, and Ron still didn't look up. He didn't like the tone. A little too pitying, a little too shy. Like he was going to bite, or else have a breakdown at the sound of a voice. He stared at the light on the floor, on autopilot, his head pounding.

"I brought you some water," was said, and he could see those pale hands offering the glass from the corner of his eye. He didn't take it. Water wouldn't make the light go faster, wouldn't make his head stop hurting so, wouldn't bring Hermione back.

A sigh. "Please take it, Ron. You're dehydrated. Please."

Ron remained motionless. Water wouldn't help anything.

There was a creak of mattress springs as Harry sat down next to Ron on the small bed. He almost felt Hermione budging him over to make room, and it caused him another pang to think so.

"Talk to me," Harry pleaded. "Please, just… I miss you."

Ron exhaled the breath he was holding. The light had managed to creep onto his blanket.

He felt fingers tip his head back a little bit and then the glass of water at his mouth. The water felt good as it touched his dry, chapped lips, hurt a little but in a comforting way. He could still feel.

He swallowed the water greedily, tongue darting out to catch the spare drops. It tasted horrible, but he didn't care anymore, needing the hydration.

And the glass was gone as quickly as it had come, and Harry blinked at him pitifully.

"I miss her, too," Harry said sadly, and then left Ron alone again.

And the light had disappeared behind a cloud.

***

A large part of him wished to go back.

He hadn't gotten to see the body, just hear about how a nameless Death Eater had caught her from behind. The thought made him sick to his stomach, and it played again and again in his mind as he watched a black widow build her web.

Which day was it? The third? All time seemed irrelevant, unimportant. Just a week ago, he would've panicked at the sight of the arachnid, her hard shiny body moving with amazing speed as she weaved silk into a glistening web, movements twitching. Now, he simply watched. What was she to him now? Just another of Earth's creatures doomed to death.

Everything died. It was the way of things.

She was nearly done already, strands of silk dangling from the corner of the room just in front of his outstretched legs. She had worked so hard on it, weaving and spinning, making a creation so beautiful that it would surely be destroyed by larger insects. She dangled down on a bit of webbing, and she nearly fell, but he caught her on his finger, smiling as her long legs brushed the hairs on his hand.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her. He didn't want her to die, not this one. "I'm sorry." He stroked her body gently and then crushed it beneath the pad of his thumb, feeling her twitch feebly before relaxing.

"I'm sorry."

Everything died. It was the way of things.

***

He thought it was the fifth day when something inside of him snapped and he broke. He tore his Chudley Cannons posters off the walls, shoved his belongings off the dresser (including Pig and his cage), ripped his blanket to pieces. He was on a roll, throwing his chess board and pulling the drawers out of his dresser. He needed destruction, needed to see things be as broken as he was, needed to make sure the room looked like how he felt.

It lasted hours, the wreckage afterwards breathtaking. It was beautiful and ugly all at once, and he hit his head against the wall, hard, because he was so tired now. Tired of living, tired of fighting the urge to scream, tired of being alone.

There was a soft knock at the door and then it opened, and his mother looked at the mess. "Ron… Oh my God…"

Ron sat on his mattress, which was on the ground, and he cried, tears pouring down his face. If he was in his right mind, he would be ashamed. Boys aren't supposed to cry. But he had to let it out.

His mother went to him. "What happened?"

"I did it," Ron sobbed. "I—I don't… I didn't… I…" He choked, nearly throwing up on the mattress.

She hugged him close to her. "Ron, why?"

He sniffed and collapsed into her. "I'm so tired…"

"I know, honey."

"It's not fair."

"Get some sleep," she said, petting his hair. "George will make you a spot on the couch."

He did as he was told, and George didn't ask any questions as he laid some blankets on the couch. Ron was cold, but too afraid and too tired to ask for extra. He had a rough sleep in the dark of the living room, and could feel Hermione's fingers in his hair, on his mouth, on his neck, making him feel loved. She leaned down and kissed him once, on the cheek, and he didn't even open his eyes. Who else would kiss him so gently, so tenderly, as if he was fragile?

When he woke up, he immediately went back upstairs. His bedroom was spotless, looking as though he'd never wrecked it. All the posters were there, even, but new, and everything was fixed. Dusted. Clean.

He wandered out into the kitchen, a blanket around his shoulders, making him feel so young. His mother was in the kitchen with Fred and George and Ginny, making scrambled eggs by hand instead of with magic. As he entered the kitchen, silence fell over his family. Ginny breathed shallowly, and the twins sent him identical looks of concern.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice weak. He was still tired.

His mother flipped an egg. "Harry did it," she replied.

He blinked at her and nodded slowly. "Is he…?"

"Outside," said Fred. "He's been out there all morning."

"Go," suggested Ginny. "He needs you."

Ron nodded again, turning away from his siblings. He went out the back door, and realized how long he'd been inside as the cool breeze hit him.

Harry had his back turned. He seemed to be watching birds in one of the Burrow's many shrubs, the back of his neck pink from sun exposure. Ron took a few steps forward, the light uncomfortable as it settled on his skin.

"I was beginning to think you weren't going to wake up," Harry said, his back still turned, voice echoing the sadness in Ron's chest.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to be here. He almost expected Hermione's voice telling him to apologize, her elbow in his ribs, her warm hands on his back, urging him forward. He almost expected it. But he knew better. She was dead, and he was never going to see her again.

"I miss her too, you know," Harry continued coldly. "She was my friend too."

"I know that," Ron said.

"Then why do you act as if you're the only person on the bloody planet that's ever spoken to her?!" Harry spun around to face him, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Ron swallowed. "I came out here to thank you for fixing my bedroom."

Harry laughed. "Oh, we'll just add that to the list of the things I do for you, shall we?" He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up a little more than usual. "I do so much for you that you don't even realize. The bedroom is nothing compared to the rest."

"I don't want to fight right now."

"Maybe I do!" Harry shouted. "Maybe I want to fight! I'm finally getting something out of you. I'm finally getting a reaction to what happened."

Ron shook his head. "I'm not going to fight with you."

Harry gripped his shoulders, shaking him. "Yell at me. Hit me. Do something, damn it! Don't just stand there."

"No," Ron said, voice strained. "I'm not going to fight with you."

"Then I'll make you do something," Harry said, and kissed him.

Before he knew what had happened, he was kissing back, hard, harder than he'd ever kissed Hermione. He put all his anger, all his depression, all his confusion into that kiss, allowing himself to be lost in it, feeling shooting back into his fingertips. Harry tasted bittersweet, like sadness, like happiness, like the variety of life.

They broke, and Harry's breath was uneven, hands shaking as they touched Ron's face and neck.

Harry collapsed into him, buried his face in Ron's neck, shoulders shaking as he cried like Ron had done only a day before. Ron held him, as if holding a thing of glass, petting the dark hair absently.

"I've missed you," was muffled against Ron's skin.

"I know," Ron said. "But I'm here now."

And even though they were both falling, they held on tight, longing for that sense of security that had left along with Hermione.

Everything died, yes. That was the way of things.

But they were surviving.


End file.
